CHAPTER 16
“In Hollywood, an equitable divorce settlement means each party getting fifty percent of publicity.”
~ Lauren Bacall
Cole found Nadia at The Peninsula. Not a gigantic sleuthing job, as it was her hotel of choice. They had stayed there during the kitchen renovation, after late shoots, Emmy parties, and during moves. He could have found her four days ago, but he’d had wounds to lick and was afraid he couldn’t see her face without screaming into it. Now, there was no other choice. He wouldn’t talk through lawyers, not when their relationship was at stake.
Could he get over this? That was the question he had struggled with since Saturday night. There had been rumors since… well, there had always been rumors. But it was Hollywood. Hell, the tabloids had posted false stories of his ‘affairs’ for the last five years. So he’d ignored anything that had been said about Nadia. But now, with the proof of infidelity stuck in his mind, everything came to the surface. The AD in Madrid. That surfer on the Pitt movie. The bodyguard who quit last year. How many more had there been? And how many had been legitimate and not just gossip?
He jerked his car to a stop, nodding curtly to the valet, his feet not slowing, his mouth not smiling, everything focused on getting inside and to her room.
“Cole.” When she spoke, the world stopped. Just as it had six years ago, on the set of Ocean Bodies, when she’d been a nobody, and he’d been the world’s biggest somebody, yet still distracted by just her whisper of his name. Cole stopped short, turning to see her standing in the lobby, her hair in a ponytail, tight leggings on with tennis shoes, a fitted tank damp against her chest. Her fingers busy screwing on a bottled water’s cap. She’d been working out. The thought struck him as offensive. She should be curled into a ball of sorrow in a big fluffy bed, her knees tucked to her chest, face red, tissues piled up. The room next door should call to complain about the wailing, her assistant should be hovering nearby with alcohol and chocolates, none of which should be able to calm the hysteria. Her cheeks shouldn’t be glowing, her chest shouldn’t be damp, she shouldn’t be fine. He looked at her, she looked at him, and the lobby fell silent.
“I got the papers.” It was all he could think to say.
She swallowed, and the delicate lines of her throat grew tight. She’d had a neck procedure done two years ago, had the doctor pull the skin tighter. Depending on the position she slept in, he could sometimes see the scars. Minute scars, ones you wouldn’t even see if you didn’t know where to look. Her next husband wouldn’t know where to look. Wouldn’t know that she’d miscarried twice and was allergic to shellfish. Her new husband. Was he already thinking that way? Was this fight already lost? She straightened. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”
Off The Peninsula’s lobby were two conference rooms. They stepped into the second, Cole pulling one of the heavy doors closed, the room dark and empty. With the door shut, the light was gone, and they stood, a few feet away from each other, and said nothing. Another time, another place, they would have been clawing at each other, his hands lifting her up on one of the tables, her hands yanking at her dress, his tie, his belt. But now, with everything between them, they just stood in the dark.
“I’m sorry, Cole.” Her voice floated from the outline that was her darkness, and slowly she took shape, her eyes on him, her teeth showing white as she bit at her bottom lip.
He blinked, the words unexpected from a woman who had made a career out of not apologizing for a damn thing. “You should have called, not…” he waved a hand in frustration. “Not gotten lawyers involved.”
“It’s over. We… we’re over.”
“No,” he hissed the words and stepped forward, flinching when she stepped back. “I—” he shut off his next sentence before it crawled out and died. I decide when we are finished. I should be the one making decisions, choosing our fate. That’s what he had started to say. Stupid words, stupid sentences. Especially when dealing with a woman like her.
“I don’t love you anymore.” She looked down, a silver piece on her ponytail holder bobbing in the darkness. “I don’t know if I ever really did. Love you, I mean. I think I just loved the idea of you, of COLE MASTEN. But now...”
“We’re equals,” he said darkly. And equals didn’t come complete with the clouded judgment of stardust. It was her Academy nomination, that was what probably did it, changed them. She had been so busy since then, hardly ever home, hardly ever in the mood.
“Yes.” She lifted her head. “I’m sorry.”
He closed his eyes and said nothing. Stepped back and turned away, needing space, needing distance, wanting a do-over on this entire conversation, relationship, life.
“And it’s not personal.” She was talking again, saying things, and he tried to refocus, tried to find his wife and her words and understand them. “It will just be simpler with the paperwork if we have the attorneys handle it.”
“Prenup.” He spat out the word. They’d been through that battle after engagement, the fight continuing right up to the week before the wedding. Everything had been clearly and simply laid out in a hundred-page document.
“I’m not supporting The Fortune Bottle unless I own half of it.” There it was. The familiar edge in her voice that a man could jump off.
“What?”
“Jesus, Cole, didn’t you at least read the agreement?” In the dark, her arms waved like dragon flaps.
“Enlighten me.”
“Our prenup stated that we each walked with what we started with, plus any earnings that accrued during our marriage, minus any joint assets.”
“I’m glad you are so familiar with it.” How long had she been planning this?
“We are petitioning that The Fortune Bottle is a joint asset.”
“But it’s not.” This was stupid. The Fortune Bottle was a book he had read, an option he had purchased from his accounts, the ten million in preproduction costs paid for out of those same accounts. No one would consider it a joint asset. Still, there was a twist in his stomach.
“I think it is. And Tony agrees with me.” Tony. So, in this division, she had claimed the attorney. Great.
The prenup had put joint assets in a category of its own, one where a mediation session would determine who gets what. The issue was that Nadia knew what a successful film brought in. They had sat in the actors’ chairs for so long, watching the big money go to the studios. Now, with The Fortune Bottle, everything would be different. A budget of sixty million, revenue of six hundred million… that was where the real money lay. And now, with his heart breaking before her, it was what she wanted to discuss. How quickly she had moved off her apology. Similar to how quickly she had moved off their marriage.
He stepped back, turning, twisting the doorknob, and moved into the light of the lobby, brightened tenfold by the snaps of a hundred paparazzi flashes.
He elbowed through the crowd, hotel security appearing and pushing him ahead. Nadia liked cameras, let her deal with them. When he got to the front, his car was waiting, and he ducked in, slamming the door behind him.
The leather shifter hot against his hand, he jerked into drive and onto the crowded street, his fingers quick on his phone. Damn Los Angeles traffic. He needed an open road, something to open up this car on, preferably one that ended in a cliff.
“Hey.”
“Justin, I need a divorce attorney. One with teeth. Find that guy who just got Michael Jordan’s ex everything.”
“Just a second.” He could hear the click of keys, the sound of productivity, and his stress lessened by a degree. Then there was the blare of a horn, Cole swerved to avoid an asshole, and felt the stress chalk back up. Maybe he’d go to Georgia early. Get the hell outta this town, get away from Nadia, away from everything. Talk to some people who, for once, didn’t have sticks up their asses.
Justin came back on the line. “Good news is, I found him. Bad news is, he lives out of the country and his site says he’s not taking on clients. Oh… Wait.” There was the furious sound of taps. “I see a Florida office number. Let me call them and see what I can do.”
“Get him. I don’t care how much money you throw at him, just do it. I want to talk to him today.”
“I’ll send you his contact now, and I’ll have him call you by the end of the day.”
“Let him know we’ll fly him out here. Tomorrow if possible.”
“I’ll try.” An odd response from a man who could do anything. “I’m sending the contact now, but don’t call the office ’til I speak to them.”
“Thanks.” He saw an opening to his turn and took it, the car jumping into action, the blare of a horn sounding as he wedged the exotic car in between two vehicles.
“Meet me at the house.” Cole ended the call and opened Justin’s text, seeing the contact card.
Brad DeLuca. DeLuca Law Firm.
The attorney. He saved the contact and then tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, swerving into the far lane and flooring the gas.